I Owe You So Much
by WarriorOfTheWeek
Summary: Inspired by a piece of fanart named, "The Walking Sherlock." John had so much to say and yet he didn't even get to say goodbye.


John Watson froze, his eyes locking on the door which was slightly ajar. Oh shit... He leaned in and pushed lightly on the door. He stepped inside and heard the sound that he had grown so used to. A moan, not human, not animal. A zombie. He could hear it coming from around the corner of the building, the place the were currently taking shelter in. John walked around the corner, and saw a man. Well, not a man anymore. A zombie. His hands went slack and the bags of food and medicine he was carrying fell to the ground. The creature was hunched over a body. To be more specific, Sherlock's body. The zombie heard the bags hit the floor and turned, parting its bloody jaws to snarl, only to be silenced by a bullet, its brains splattering on the opposite wall. It collapsed on top of Sherlock's unmoving form, and John let out a gasp, rushing forward. He ripped the walker off of his best friend, and clamped his hand over his mouth.

Sherlock's left cheek had been ripped clean off, blood oozing from the wound. His blue eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling, his face forever locked a mask of pain and fear. John let out a strangled sob.

"Sherlock," he gasped, leaning down and grabbing the mans wrist. No pulse. "Sherlock," he croaked, leaning down and pressing his ear to his best friends chest. No heart beat. The warmth was already starting to seep from the detectives form.

John stood back up, placing both his hands on the back of his head he staggered backward and hit the wall. He slid down, his face a mixture of shock and disbelief. He stared at the body, silent, unmoving, and then it hit him.

"Oh God no! Oh God please no! No!" he shrieked. "I was only gone for five minutes! Five bloody minutes!" he screamed. He did not care anymore, and at that moment, John Watson became the exact opposite of himself. He screamed. He sobbed, he thrashed around, punching the wall, kicking it, screaming until he had no air left in his lungs. Crying until his eyes were red and almost swollen shut.

He sucked air down his raw throat and into his lungs and tried to pull himself together. He tried to imagine what Sherlock would say to him if he could see him.

Where had Mary been while this was happening? And Molly? And Ms. Hudson? Leaping up her rushed around the corner and tore up the stairs, stopping when he saw the door before him. On a piece of paper, crudely written in Sherlock's hand writing said **ALIVE INSIDE**. Then the full impact of the situation hit him. Sherlock had given his life to save them. He probably knew when he shoved them inside he was going to die. Of course he knew. He was Sherlock Bloody Holmes. John then turned slowly and looked back down the stair case. A low moan emitted from the room below. He stood frozen at the top of the stairs, and heard the sounds of foot steps. Slow, and clumsy, his breath caught when Sherlock's body lurched in front of the stairs. His head was held slightly to the side, jaws agape, his blue eyes filmed over. This was not Sherlock anymore.

"_John," Sherlock murmured from where he stood by the window, looking down at the walkers stumbling through the street._

"_Yes, Sherlock?" John asked, looking up from the ammo he was counting._

_Sherlock continued, his voice soft and quite. "Make me a promise." _

_John leaned back in his chair, looking at his friend critically. "Yeah. Sure. Okay. What?"_

"_If I become one of them," he said absent mindedly, "Don't let me hurt people." _

_John bit his lip. "You're asking me to kill you if you turn?" The detective gave no reply, just a small nod._

"_You're not going to turn, Sherlock. We are going to get through this." he said, furrowing his brows together. _

"_Please," Sherlock turned, his blue eyes filled with desperation. "Promise me." _

_John, taken back, nodded. "Yes. Alright. Calm down. I will shoot you if you turn." he assured his best friend and the man visibly relaxed. "But that's not going to happen." _

"I didn't even get to say good-bye." John said raggedly, staring down at the creature in Sherlock's skin. In reply, the zombie lurched forward and began to climb up the stairs, gurgling in an in human way.

Slowly John reached into his pocket, his fingers brushing the cold metal of the gun.

_You once told me you weren't a hero._

His hands tightened on the gun.

_There were times I didn't even think you were human. But let me tell you this_

He pulled the gun out, slowly, and the creature lurched closer.

_You were the best man and human being I'd ever known, and no one will ever convince me you told me a lie. _

He aimed. His hand shook and tears rolled down his face. A straight shot. Sherlock wouldn't feel a thing.

_I was so alone, and I owe you so much…_

Steadying his hand he looked one last time into the blue eyes that lacked their warmth, and memories of days long past raced through his mind. "I'm sorry, Sherlock." he gasped. Then he pulled the trigger.


End file.
